


sweat, tears, or the sea

by Eremji (handsfullofdust)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Post-Black Panther (2018), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 19:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15848163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handsfullofdust/pseuds/Eremji
Summary: Steve Rogers learns how to stop running from what he wants.Bucky wakes him well before dawn. Steve rises slowly, unwilling to disturb the morning quiet, and Bucky hands him a bowl of hot porridge with a fried egg laid over the top of it, the yolk as yellow as daffodils when he breaks it with his spoon.





	sweat, tears, or the sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidheann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidheann/gifts).



> For eidheann, who manages to juggle me, as well as a full plate. <3
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://eremji.tumblr.com/) and [Pillowfort](https://pillowfort.io/Eremji).

_‘The cure for anything is salt water – sweat, tears, or the sea.’_

– Isak Dinesen  


*

 

Bucky wakes him well before dawn. Steve rises slowly, unwilling to disturb the morning quiet, and Bucky hands him a bowl of hot porridge with a fried egg laid over the top of it, the yolk as yellow as daffodils when he breaks it with his spoon.  
  
They don't speak. It fills Steve with a growing sort of wonder to look at Bucky, to know the familiar lines of his face and see the way time has changed him and kept him the same all in one. His hair is mussed from sleep, and Steve’s fingers twitch with the urge to straighten it, or maybe to get out the pencils he brought with him and sketch out the sleepy set of Bucky’s eyes in graphite.  
  
Outside, close to the cottage, the cattle begin to mill in their pen in anticipation of being fed. Steve sets years of grief aside and tries to map out how he’d draw the sway of Bucky’s back, the slope of his shoulders, the curve of his lower lip where it's pressed against the condensation of his glass, because this is them together again, alive and mostly well.  
  
This isn’t the life that Steve thought Bucky would choose, but it's better than what Steve has, which is no life at all, running like a fugitive from city to city, avoiding cameras and always looking over his shoulder. Steve sometimes thinks about putting down the mission, about stepping through the doorway into the dark, cool interior of the cottage holding all of his things instead of just a few changes of clothing and his next ticket to nowhere.  
  
They wash the breakfast dishes right away, like Steve’s ma taught him, standing side by side. Steve scrubs them with a cloth, up to his elbows in soapy water, while Bucky rinses them one-handed under the tap and lays them out on a mat to air dry. They don’t need to speak, still a well-oiled machine after all these years, old hands at soap suds and sponges. Memory swells in Steve, a vast expanse stretched out behind him, until nothing seems quite real in the dim glow of the kitchen light.  
  
Steve follows Bucky outside and down to the feed shed, a humble affair with a door but no lock. Light is splitting the sky with pastel lavenders and pinks. The stars faded from view when Steve was scraping the last spoonfuls of breakfast from his bowl, but the moon is still luminous and Venus dogs it as it sets.  
  
Bucky slings bales of fresh-smelling hay into the back of his small cart and Steve helps him load full sacks of feed for his chickens and sweet stacks of forage barley for the cattle. The goats, less discerning, are allotted alfalfa and a collection of wilting vegetable scraps from the kitchen. From the corner of his eye, Steve watches Bucky work like he always does, hard and then harder, his skin sun-flushed, as if the country air and physical labor and the sweat of his brow could exorcise the last of the Winter Soldier’s ill humours still swimming in his veins.  
  
The livestock bear Bucky inspecting them with considerable grace. Steve likes the cattle the best and lets them eat from his hand while Bucky checks their hooves, running his hand down their long, spindly legs and examining each limb diligently. Steve watches Bucky, his clothes already clinging to him in the summer heat. The sun inches higher, burning hot, the sky cloudless, blue as the Italian vase that sat in his ma’s kitchen.  
  
A fat calf trails Steve, lipping at his pockets until he crouches down, its huge eyes lidded in obvious pleasure when Steve scratches under the hinge of its jaw. When Steve looks up, Bucky is watching him over the top of the cart, his gaze searing, the desire in his expression unmistakable. Bucky turns away, and when Steve stands, his face is burning, his whole body hot, because he’s always thought Bucky was handsome as hell, even back in Brooklyn, but the serum poured new life into his aching bones and chased away all the exhaustion that kept him from feeling it like he is now.  
  
The heat washes through the valley like a flash flood when the sun crests the mountains. If Steve thought it was hot in the night, sticking to his bedroll and breathing humid breaths, the air is searing now, his skin tacky with moisture, hair clinging to his neck. He hauls the hay off the cart, following Bucky’s example, and the fine dust and particulate matter cling to his skin.  
  
Lunch is as early as their breakfast, nine or ten, the quality of time slippery in the heat and sunshine. By the time they descend to a small tree-flanked pond and kick off their shoes in the shade, Steve feels the tip of his nose burning, his scalp prickling with sweat. They settle down to eat unfamiliar, sweet fruit and goat cheese and crusty bread out of what is, on closer inspection, an insulated bag full of ice. When they've had their fill, Bucky dips his fingers into the meltwater and playfully flicks the icy droplets at Steve.  
  
Steve looks at the mischievous way the corners of Bucky’s eyes crinkle, the tousled fall of his hair, his throat where it glistens with salt and sweat, and bowls him over into the grass, his heart filled all the way to the brim with joy and desire. They’re laughing, Bucky fighting him like an alley cat, scrappy and determined even with just the one arm. He sinks his teeth into the meat of Steve’s shoulder, not above fighting dirty, and it doesn't hurt, not quite, but Steve makes a soft noise and goes still.  
  
Bucky brushes his lips against Steve’s neck, and Steve exhales sharply, hooking his arm around Bucky’s waist. The tension between them feels like a soap bubble, and when Bucky's tongue makes contact with the stripe of skin at the collar of Steve’s shirt, it bursts, and all Steve can think of is how much he wants to put his hands right up under Bucky's clothes.  
  
“Steve,” Bucky says, one helpless syllable, the first he’s uttered since he woke Steve. The response sticks in Steve’s throat, and the unguarded expression on Bucky’s face is terrifying because Steve wants this so badly, so suddenly, so completely that desire drives a spear under his sternum.  
  
There are a thousand thousand words, all of them crowding up on each other. Forgiveness, love, an unwavering faith in Bucky that held fast even when his hand was on Steve’s throat, even when his knife was at Steve’s neck. It's too much to say, a whole gulf lingering between them, filled with the wreckage of lost decades: too many wars, nights spent sleeping with one eye open, bullet casings spilling like copper coins from the chamber of Bucky's rifle. In memory, Bucky reaches two good arms up to help Peggy down from a crate of confiscated weapons, and Steve falls in love twice, but can't find the courage to say it even once.  
  
Bucky touches Steve’s face and summons him back, a hook and line in Steve’s heart. The only people here are them and all their old ghosts, so Steve kisses Bucky like he thinks he always wanted to, bearing him down to the ground in the shade of the trees. Bucky opens up below him, his hand in Steve’s hair, one strong leg slung over Steve’s, his breathing shallow and quick, mouth open.  
  
He pushes his hand up under Bucky’s tunic, feeling for bare skin, for anything he can grasp, and Bucky arches for him. Clumsy and uncareful, he unwraps Bucky from his clothing, undoing the knotted belt, revealing him an inch at a time. Steve sees his navel first, a familiar divot, and then all the rest; Bucky has scars that Steve doesn't remember, and some that are ripe with old memory. Steve wants to put his mouth on all of them, so does, and Bucky gasps and shudders and pulls on Steve's hair.  
  
Small nipples, a hard chest, broad and salty with work. A line of dark hair down his sternum, a shadow of it at the hem of his pants. Steve uncovers all of him, every bit of him, even the parts that are missing, and Bucky doesn't flinch, just sighs when Steve presses a line of apologetic kisses to the edge of the scarred tissue.  
  
Steve kneels between his legs and undoes Bucky's pants, pulling them down to Bucky’s knees. His cock springs up, fully erect: thick, flushed, damp at the tip. Steve can feel the way his own jaw goes involuntarily slack, the way his face heats, the rush of adrenaline. He's never held another man's fine parts in his hands before, so he takes stock of Bucky’s body, the way the heat makes everything damp, the dark curl of Bucky’s hair at his balls.  
  
Bucky’s smile spreads slowly across his face and he arches like a cat in the sun. He asks, “Like what you see?” and he’s himself again for the moment, the man he was before going to war, stretched out with his arm around a pretty girl, mouth soft and eyes lingering on Steve.  
  
But Steve isn't the same man he was, so he says, “Yeah,” with airless lungs and bends his head to do what he only knows of in theory. He's takes Bucky down and Bucky pushes up into Steve’s open mouth, a little rough with him, and good, so good. The length of him doesn't quite fit, the angle all wrong, but Steve persists, until Bucky pulls on his hair, fucking molasses-smooth up into Steve’s mouth. He tastes like salt and a dozen things that Steve never thought he’d have. Steve learns the length of him, memorizing the tender skin, the way he makes soft, high noises when Steve runs the flat of his tongue just under the head.  
  
It's easy to lose track of things when he’s crouched over Bucky, feeling him, with Bucky’s calloused fingers combing through his hair. It's just them, and the scorching air, and the way two bodies fit together at the seams, skin on skin, all their most tender parts exposed. Bucky tastes good, and he rolls the flat of his tongue along the underside of his cock, listening for the way his breathing changes. He makes a low, rumbling noise, involuntarily, when Bucky fists his hand in Steve's hair and tugs.  
  
“Stevie,” Bucky says, desperate, huffing out each breath, his thrusts shallow and erratic. “Gonna –” And then the hand in his hair makes more sense, and Steve resists the way Bucky tries to warn him off it. There’s a taste of salt on Steve’s tongue, a bitterness, then Bucky is coming, fucking him through it, until it spills out wet and messy and delicious from Steve’s mouth.  
  
“Stevie, fuck, look at you, I’ve made a mess. Come here, let me clean you up,” Bucky’s murmuring, and he makes a shaky effort to follow through before giving up. He kisses Steve hard, licking himself out of Steve’s mouth, until they both taste and smell and feel like sex, like being fucked in the heat of the afternoon.  
  
Still burning, Steve rolls onto his back, and Bucky kicks off his pants and comes with him, hand fisted in Steve’s shirt, hair clinging to his neck, mouth busy with Steve’s tongue. When he pulls back and grins down at Steve, his teeth are white and straight, and the slant of his mouth promises imminent mischief. It's so familiar that it makes Steve hurt all the way down to the bedrock of his bones, and he never wants it to stop.  
  
“If I’d known you were keen,” Bucky murmurs, leaning in.  
  
“Don’t,” Steve says, because he's just grateful for what they have now, not all the might-have-beens. Might have been that Bucky was buried under six feet of snow and seventy years of memory. Might have been Steve never had the chance to say the things he oughta have said way back when they were cramped and cold and huddled together but still themselves. “It's enough now.”  
  
“Yeah,” Bucky says, and bends to steal another kiss. He gets a little rough, tugging and nipping, and it winds Steve up, because Steve guesses he’s always liked a firm hand. Maybe he’s just always liked Bucky’s firm hand, since Bucky’s the only one who ever bothered to not treat him like their ma’s favorite tea set.  
  
They don't have anything to slick either of them up, and Steve’s versed enough to know it's not advisable to do things with a fella unless the pipes are a bit slippery, but Bucky’s got a few tricks up his sleeve. It's easier to get Steve out of his t-shirt and jeans, accomplished with a little jostling and assistance from Bucky’s covetous, roving eye. They’re pushed together, naked as sin, and Steve thinks Bucky looks wild like this, skin sunny brown and dark hair tousled. He reaches up to snare his fingers in it, and ends up with Bucky kissing him again, with a tongue in his mouth.  
  
He’s fully hard, and Bucky’s rising gamely for a second round. Bucky’s always been a little hungry for touch, as long as Steve’s known him, and Steve’s pleased that HYDRA couldn't ruin that for him. So many other things are still tentative, but the way Bucky reaches for him isn’t.Their cocks slide together, Bucky straddling him and seated high on Steve’s thighs. Steve breathes shallowly through the jolt of pleasure it brings to have someone else’s hand on him, when his own has rarely bought him more than a moment's interest. He’s aware of every point of contact, of the smell of Bucky’s body in the sun, sharp like salt and cut grass.  
  
“Gonna make you feel good, Stevie,” Bucky says, and when he looks at Steve his lips are parted, wet, red from kissing and Steve’s beard and Steve can barely stand knowing he’s going to have to go away from this again.  
  
But he’ll come back, he’ll come back, he _will_ , and maybe one day for good – and then they can have this private, electric thing all to themselves. He’d take it here, in the scorching African summer – he’d take it anywhere, as long as Bucky was there, as long as they could have some quiet. He slides his hand up Bucky’s bare abdomen, palm slick, and grips at Bucky’s pectoral. He doesn't have to be delicate here; he can have what he wants, because they both might be battle-scarred, but they aren't delicate men, ain’t never been delicate men.  
  
“Come on,” Bucky urges, and rolls his hip forward. His hand is big enough to hold their cocks together, but Steve closes his own around it, completes the circuit, grip just loose enough that they slide through together. Bucky changes it up a little, so he’s coming while Steve’s going, and the slip and friction is enough to fan the spark of heat blossoming up and down Steve’s torso.  
  
“Buck, make it last,” Steve pleads, and Bucky slows, the desperate edge of it subsiding, then rising again, slower, more deliberate. He lets it wash over him – each burst of pleasure like a flash in his mind, like the bite of a ripe orange after months of winter, or the first time he realized Bucky's eyes were blue – and stares up at Bucky and is struck dumb by the circumstance. To have him back –  
  
To have him – to have –  
  
“I love you,” Steve says, and he feels like he’s ripping the words right out of his own belly. Bucky blinks at him, wide-eyed, and Steve’s spine bows with pleasure, and they’re both spilling over their clutching knuckles, between their fingers, hot and messy, and Bucky rides him through it as long as Steve can stand it, until he has to stay Bucky’s hand because it's all too much.  
  
The summer crystallizes around them, one perfect, blue moment in time. A breeze stirs the trees above them, and he drinks in the sight of Bucky’s shade-dappled skin and says, “I love you,” again. Softer, less desperate, breathing slowly in and out, his own heartbeat like thunder in his ears.  
  
Bucky rolls off him and for half a second Steve thinks he's maybe said the wrong thing, that Bucky will slip right out of himself again and Steve will be left holding another memory, like smoke in the breeze.  
  
But Bucky collapses into the grass beside him, all smiles despite the mess and sweat and dirt. “Stevie, God, I love you too.” His gaze is bright, and it's the first time Steve’s seen Bucky happy since the time they were on leave in France. Bucky's smiles had been rare after he shipped out, each one fragile, and darkly delicious, like chocolate and cigarettes, and Steve would've personally thrashed the entire European theater just to see him smile like he is now.  
  
Vehemently, Steve says, “I’m staying an extra day. I can rebook my flight.”  
  
Bucky’s smile widens. He climbs to his feet, fishing around for his clothes, casual like nothing’s changed. Maybe it hasn't, maybe it's just out in the open now, naked under the sun just like they are.  
  
“Music to my ears. Come on,” Bucky says, thumping Steve’s ankle with his bare foot, the easy slant of his body beautiful from every angle. “We still have to weed the garden.”

 


End file.
